


Freedom of Expression

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual!Waylon, Coffee Shops, Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, Gay!Miles, Humour, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Marking, Meet-Cute, Minor Violence, Porn With Plot, Slurs, Smoking, Smut, homophobia/transphobia, mlm!author, soft kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 10:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: Even if you didn’t know him well, you could say Miles Upshur was a number of things. Handsome, athletic and well dressed were a few that came to mind. Those who were close to him said he was charming, funny, and a loyal friend. Strangers thought he was brash, loud, and obnoxious. If you asked Waylon Park, he could tell you that Miles Upshur was all of these things, and much, much more.Even before they met, the idea of Miles was intimidating.





	Freedom of Expression

Even if you didn’t know him well, you could say Miles Upshur was a number of things. Handsome, athletic and well dressed were a few that came to mind. Those who were close to him said he was charming, funny, and a loyal friend. Strangers thought he was brash, loud, and obnoxious. If you asked Waylon Park, he could tell you that Miles Upshur was all of these things, and much, much more.

Even before they met, the idea of Miles was intimidating.

“Forget what you’ve heard about him,” Lynn said, “He’s actually a sweet guy!”

Easy for her to say, the only person scarier than Miles Upshur was Lynn Langermann. She didn’t understand that the man’s dashing good looks, charming smile, and sculpted body were enough to set Waylon on edge with self-consciousness, and those extra few inches he had on the blond did nothing to help the matter either.

Their first date was a disaster full of Waylon tripping on air, forgetting how to form a coherent sentence, and spacing out whilst looking directly into Miles’ eyes. God, Lynn and Blake had tried so hard to sort this whole date thing out, and he blew it! Miles would never want to see him ever again, especially after he spilt a slushie all over himself and the brunet had given him his jacket to hide the obnoxious pink and blue stain.

Miles drove him home later that night. Soft rock played over the speakers whilst Miles told him a funny anecdote about Blake from their younger years, but he couldn’t quite focus. His own anxiety had gotten the best of him and ruined both their nights, leaving Waylon to stew in his own embarrassment while Miles played it off coolly like a champ.

“Let me walk you to your door,” said the brunet, “This isn’t a great area.”

That was Waylon’s first sign that something was up. He lived in a fantastic area, with rarely a visit from even the fire department. Regardless, he unlocked the passenger door and began the short walk to his apartment complex.

“Oh!” he suddenly remembered the jacket and began taking it off, but Miles stopped him halfway. The hand over his was warm, encompassing; it was a jarring contrast to the summer's end breeze surrounding them. 

“Keep it for now,” he smirked, “looks better on you than me.”

A deep blush spread across Waylon’s cheeks, and all he managed was a small nod as he shrugged the sleeve back over his shoulder.

“Besides,” the brunet’s smirk grew, “gives me an excuse to stop by again.”

The blush spread further down his cheeks, to his neck, and probably even lower.

“That is… if you’re okay with-“

“Yes!” sputtered Waylon, a little too quickly to be socially acceptable.

Miles chuckled and took a step towards him, “Well good, ‘cause I don’t think one date’s gonna be enough for me.”

A large palm caressed Waylon’s cheek before slender fingers buried themselves in his hair, pulling them close enough so that Miles could bend down and meet his lips with his own.

He tasted like cigarettes, presumably because he had smoked one on the way home. Normally, this would be a turn-off for Waylon. In the eighth grade Dayna Carmichael had kissed him after she smoked a cigarette and she tasted like an ashtray, which turned him off kissing until his sophomore year when he met Lisa, who absolutely despised smoking of any kind. With Miles, it just added to the heady atmosphere that surrounded him, mixing with the spice of his cologne and the crisp night air until Waylon was light-headed and kissing back with a little too much enthusiasm.

Miles grinned into the kiss, then pulled away, leaving one small peck on the blond’s lips before staring down onto his face with hooded eyes.

“Was that okay?” he asked quietly.

Waylon nodded enthusiastically.

“When can I see you again?”

“Well, I mean, I-I work from home, usually, so you could – you could come whenever you wanted if that’s-“

Miles cut off his rambling with another soft press of lips, “How ‘bout tomorrow? I have work in the morning, but I can come by around five?”

“S-sure, that works, do you want me to dress up?”

“Maybe something a little less public would do you a bit of good, it’s not really my thing either. I can bring over a couple of beers and some movies?”

A shy smile crept its way onto Waylon’s face, “I’d love that.”

“It’s a date,” he leaned down again and kissed Waylon’s burning cheek, “Night, Waylon.”

“Goodnight!” he called after him. He watched the younger man get into his Jeep, and drive off under the dimly lit streetlights. It took his brain a few minutes to catch up, to process the events that had just occurred, and when it finally did he scrambled to get his keys in the door, rushing up the steps to his apartment with a skip in his step and a goofy grin on his face. He was giddier than a kid on Christmas. Despite him being a human train wreck, Miles still wanted to hang out with him! It was a miracle, but Waylon had enough experience with things like this that he knew you shouldn’t question miracles, because that’s when things go awry.

Tomorrow eventually came around after a night full of spontaneous noises of glee and lots of tossing and turning. Waylon did everything he could to prepare; took a shower, cleaned the whole house, got dressed, cleaned the whole house again, and stared at himself in the mirror for a solid twenty minutes. He felt underdressed, but they were hanging out at his house for Christ’s sake! No matter what he would always feel underdressed beside Miles, even if the man showed up in only boxers and- oh god, Waylon, don’t think about Miles in his underwear!

Five o’ clock rolled around, and Waylon waited impatiently on the couch, switching between checking the time on his phone and tapping his foot incessantly against the coffee table. Minutes went by, Waylon assumed things must have went a little late with whatever he was doing beforehand, so he refrained from sending the worried text he had typed into the chat bar.

Suddenly it was a quarter to six, and Waylon’s calf was strained and cramped from his worried tapping. What was the protocol in this situation? Could he send a text? Maybe Miles forgot. Or maybe the man had been humouring him, maybe he was just being nice because Waylon was nervous and he didn’t want to send him off with an awkward goodbye-

The doorbell rang and had the small blond on his feet in less than a second, rushing to the door and swinging it open, to find Miles, in a hoodie, sunglasses, and a pair of tight navy jeans.

“‘Sup,” he held up a case of beer, “I come bearing gifts.”

Waylon stepped aside to let him come through, watching him quietly as he took off his shoes by the shoe rack, but didn’t make a move to take off his glasses.

“You’re late,” said Waylon before he could stop myself.

“Sorry, got caught up with something at work, then the dude at the liquor store thought my ID was fake.” Now shoeless, he stepped into Waylon’s space, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Forgive me?”

The kiss rendered Waylon powerless, so of course all was forgiven quickly. He led Miles further into the small apartment and took the case of beer from him, pulling two out before sticking the rest in the fridge. Miles settled himself around the central island as Waylon passed him one of the sweating bottles, and he thanked him as he pulled a few DVD cases from the stomach pocket of his hoodie.

“I didn’t know what kind of movies you’re into, so I brought a few different ones.”

Waylon opened his beer and passed the bottle-opener to Miles, “I’m not picky, but I’m partial to science fiction.”

The brunet popped open his brew and slid one of the cases over for Waylon to inspect. The cover was a deep red and had a man in a space suit on the front. The bold white font above the image read 2001: A Space Odyssey. Waylon couldn’t fight back the frown that pulled at his lips.

“This movie scared the shit out of me when I was nine.”

“Well,” Miles leant across the table and picked up the DVD, “we’ll have to see if it still does, won’t we?”

The mischievous lilt of his voice made Waylon a bit nervous, but the teasing tone made him all the more interested in the film as well. They made their way over to the living room where Miles immediately sat down in front of the television, inserting the movie into the disc drive while Waylon found a comfortable place on the sofa.

Miles had always been good at reading people. It was a skill that helped him as a journalist many times, and throughout his life. Today, it helped him make Waylon more comfortable with himself. During their first date he discovered that the older man was a very poor decision maker, and it often led him to slip up and crack under non-existent pressure. So, as he set himself up on the couch, Miles made sure to give him time before finding his own position not too close to the man. If he decided to get closer, it would be on him. If Miles stretched and put an arm across the back of the couch like every cliché high school romance flick, that would be on Miles.

“Do you always wear your glasses inside?” asked Waylon over the sound of Strauss’ orchestra.

Miles’ hand shot up to his face, pushing the frames a little further up his nose. “No, this is a recent fashion development.”

The blond chewed his cheek as he stared at the other man’s shades. They were oversized aviators that covered a good third of the other man's handsome face, and the prospect of staring back at himself the rest of the night was unsettling. They couldn’t have been prescription; Miles was obviously up to something.

“Take them off, please.” He reached one hand up, making Miles flinch back. “Please? I’d like to see your eyes, not check myself out every time I want to have a conversation.”

The brunet chuckled lightly before putting his beer on the table and leaning in a bit so Waylon’s hand met the frames of the glasses.

“Promise not to wig out.”

Pale fingers wrapped around the edge of the frame, pulling them down Miles’ sculpted nose and revealing his eyes. His left was normal, dark eyelashes and irises the colour of amber just as Waylon remembered, but the other was surrounded by bruises. All shades of blue and black framed his socket, as well as a bit down his high cheekbone, eventually fading into a sickly purple that was sure to turn yellow by the next morning.

“Jesus, Miles! What the hell happened to you?”

“You’re wigging out,” he huffed, “I told you, got caught up in some stuff at work.” Despite the horrific bruising and swelling around his eye, Miles didn’t seem too worked up. He spoke about the ordeal as if it were a paper cut.

“Have you iced it at all?”

“Put a beer on it in the car, but-“

“Christ Miles, what did you do?” Waylon’s hands framed his abused face, turning it back and forth gently to assess the swelling and damage. It looked to be mostly bruising, but his cheekbone was still brazen and hot as he swiped his fingers over it gently.

“This is what you get when you try to get a scoop on a butch lady who thinks it’s cool to dump kids on the street.”

“What?”

“I’m investigating that Kim Dallas broad, the one who works for the county,” he made a vague gesture with his hands, “Shut down that youth homeless shelter on Terrance and third.” He flinched as Waylon put a bit too much pressure on the bruising, “Nice woman. Nasty left hook, though…”

Waylon’s face contorted into something resembling frustration, and he put his beer down and excused himself. A few moments later, he returned with a bag of peas and a bottle of pills.

“It’s Tylenol,” he cracked open the bottle, handing a few of the little red pills to the other man. He downed them with a mouthful of beer and a thanks, but he shied away when Waylon tried to press the frozen bag to his eye. “It’ll help with the swelling, you’re going to regret it if you don’t ice it.”

That seemed to do it. Miles gradually relaxed back onto the cushions and let Waylon hold it to his face, using minimal pressure. The brunet’s own hand came up and covered the blond’s smaller one, increasing the pressure for more cold relief but also as an excuse to touch him.

“Thanks, you’re a peach.”

Waylon huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“That’s cool what you’re doing,” he said, “for those kids, I mean. I’ve been following it a bit on the news. That woman is…”

“A scumbag,” spat Miles. “I grew up with three sisters and a single mom, so I’ve never thought twice about respecting women but that’s… that’s no woman.” His expression softened, “I can’t just stand back and watch that shit, no way. Called her out on it outside the courthouse, she got a little miffed.”

The smaller man shifted closer, adjusting himself to more comfortably hold the bag, “You could at least take a step back, you know, I’m sure getting sucker punched wasn’t really needed.”

“Occupational hazard. Happens more often than you think.”

That made Waylon laugh, and somehow Miles face softened even more. Before they knew it, the bag of peas was abandoned to melt onto Waylon’s canvas sofa, but he found it hard to care when Miles’ tongue was teasing at his bottom lip, and his hands were tugging gently at his waist and the sandy curls at the back of his neck. He let out a soft moan, which only egged the younger man on even more. With a strength Waylon could only wish to possess, Miles picked him up and placed him in his lap.

“Miles-” he mumbled, but soon Miles’ lips covered his again, muffling his voice. The sounds of the movie played on in the background, and the sopping mess of the melting bag was freezing Waylon’s calf, but Miles was a hell of a kisser, and he could feel a tight coil burning low in his gut that set all his nerves on fire.

Before it could heat up any more, Waylon’s hand came up to Miles’ chest, pushing him back down onto the cushions so he could look down on his face. A brief flash of worry crossed the brunet’s features, “Everything good, Way? Was that too far?”

It was always ‘Waylon’ or ‘Park’, never ‘Way’. That was something his friends called him sometimes, but the nickname had never crossed Miles’ lips before. To hide the flush of arousal and embarrassment, Waylon hid his head in the crook of Miles’ neck.

“Everything’s just great.”

Miles laughed breathily, “Then look at me. Is it the shiner? I can put the glasses back on if it’s bothering you.”

“No! No, really, i-it’s fine.” Waylon leant back onto his thighs and kept his hands at Miles’ toned shoulders, “Really, it’s just-“ he sighed, “I really like you. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You mean, you don’t wanna go too fast?”

The blond nodded sheepishly, but Miles carded a hand through his tousled hair and gave him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Whatever pace is fine with me, Way, as long as you’re happy.”

Waylon whined and hid his face again, “Don’t say things like that…”

“It’s true!” objected Miles, “Now that we got that sorted out, you wanna watch the rest of the movie?”

Waylon nodded and moved to step off Miles’ lap, but the man seemed to have other ideas. He pulled one of the pillows they had moved to the floor back onto the couch and laid down, pulling the smaller man with him. Eventually they found a comfortable position, Waylon’s head on Miles’ bicep, Miles’ free arm around his waist, and their legs intertwined.

In this position, it was hard to pay attention, but Waylon didn’t really mind. Miles’ front was warm against his back, and his toned calves were wrapped securely around his own legs, basically blanketing his entire body across the smaller man. It felt good, and he had almost always been the big spoon, so it was nice for a change. He felt safe, and even as the most unsettling parts of the movie came around, he didn’t tense or flinch or jump once.

A few beers later, Miles left, but not before showering the blond in goodbye kisses. Waylon felt the urge to call him back, to invite him to stay the night, but he knew he shouldn’t. If he did, Miles might expect more than he could offer, so he thought it was best they left it at that. Besides, they made plans for that Tuesday, lunch at a small café halfway between Waylon’s apartment and his own.

Besides the barista discretely slipping Miles her number on his cup, it went very well. Waylon was still nervous, but not nearly as much as he had been. He paid for their coffee, since Miles bought them beer that weekend, and they talked over shared pastries and sips of the sweet drinks. As they left the shop, Miles immediately linked their fingers, and didn’t let up until they had made it to the Jeep. Like everybody said, Miles was loud and proud. He even offered to drive Waylon home to the other side of town so that he didn’t have to take the bus.

The following weeks were very similar. They would meet up for lunch, or sometimes dinner that consisted of beer and pizza. Things were kept light, and casual, but neither could complain. Miles suaveness and nonchalant nature was rubbing off on Waylon, and he found himself just going with the flow more than usual. Making out whilst slightly buzzed like horny teens made Waylon feel years younger, and he couldn't get enough. Blake and Lynn were sure glad to hear that things were working out, even if they weren’t really official or by any means serious so far.

Until six weeks after their first date, when Waylon opened the door to a rather dishevelled freelance journalist.

“Howdy,” said Miles, “Mind if I come in for a bit?”

“Uh sure? But-“ Way stepped in front of him as he crossed the threshold into the apartment, “what happened to you?”

His signature leather jacket was completely missing, which wouldn’t be so strange if it wasn’t the dead of Colorado autumn. The white tee he was wearing had all sorts of holes and stains on it, ranging from big to small, mud brown to bright crimson, and everything in between. The knees of his jeans were torn and frayed, with even more staining down the legs.

“Guard dog.”

Waylon glared at him, crossing his arms and stepping away.

“I’m serious,” he groaned, shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t know she was there, I just-“

“What were you doing running from a guard dog? Did you trespass on private property?”

Miles slumped against the door, “Is the home of one corporate douchehandle Jeremy Blaire considered private property?”

“Most definitely.”

The younger man groaned again, “You’re killing me!”

After he took off his shoes, Waylon lead the threadbare journalist to his bathroom where he made him sit on the toilet seat. Under the sink, he found an unused first aid kit, and set it on the counter beside him.

He looked at Miles expectantly, who just cocked his head.

“You need something?”

“You’re gonna have to…” he motioned to the man’s sopping jeans, “You know-”

A loud rip cut through the quiet of the bathroom, and suddenly Miles’ Levi’s turned into jean shorts.

“That’s not what I meant, but okay,” he knelt in front of the other man, pulling some bottles and wipes from the first aid kit.

“They’re done for anyway, I-“ he hissed as Waylon applied the antiseptic, “Christ, that hurts like a bitch!”

“Sorry, sorry, I just don’t want you to get infected,” he dabbed gently at the scrapes across his legs, “A dog did this to you?”

“No, a dog chased me off the property, a rather high fence did this to me. It’s harder to climb over panicked than it is when you’re fuelled by truth, justice, and the American way.”

Waylon continued his work, trying to forget why Miles was in this state. It seemed like this was a regular occurrence, from the way Miles spoke about it, and Blake had told him a few stories before. Regardless, it wasn’t normal to get yourself into shit this often and this deep. It seemed like the trouble just found the journalist, or he went looking for it, rather.

“Why the long face?” Miles reached a hand out and turned his face up, “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Way?”

“Just thinking about maybe taking a first aid course.”

“Oh really?” answered the brunet with an amused grin.

“Oh yeah,” Waylon deadpanned, “Maybe even go back to medical school, ‘cause it seems like every time you show up to my house sporting a new injury, it gets worse and worse.”

The younger man leaned down from the toilet seat, catching Waylon’s lips in a dramatic smooch that had his monotonous expression turning into one of pure elation, surely what Miles had meant for. He was giggling into the kiss, and began kissing back as Miles pulled him up and onto his lap.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered, trailing his lips down the blond’s neck, “Won’t die on ya’ anytime soon, I swear.”

“At all.” Waylon squished his cheeks between his palms and forced him to meet his eyes, “Miles, you’re not dying at all, don’t be ridiculous.”

Somehow, his grin became even goofier, and he nodded. “I swear, no dying before Waylon,” he made a crossing motion over his chest, “Cross my heart.”

They were interrupted by a loud creak beneath them, signalling that the toilet seat was straining under both their weights. Waylon’s head fell to Miles’ shoulder as he stood, then began putting away all the spare medical equipment back in its place. Their initial kiss had been heated, and Waylon could feel a tightness in his abdomen, but he chose to ignore it. Then Miles stood, stepping behind the shorter man and draping himself across his shoulders. His hands trailed down his sides, matching the way his warm lips slid down the back of his neck, meeting the meat of his shoulder where his t-shirt dipped slightly. Brown eyes met blue in the mirror; Miles had a smile on his face, but there was something else there that Waylon couldn’t quite place. His hands rested at the blond’s hips, long fingers ghosting the tops of his thighs as he stared at the sight in the mirror.

“Y’know,” said Waylon, a little breathier than he intended, “I don’t think jean shorts suit you.”

That pulled a throaty laugh from Miles, who brought his lips up to the shell of the shorter man’s ear. “Really now? I’m kind of digging the jorts look, I hear that’s what’s in right now.”

At any other time, Waylon would have laughed at Miles’ use of the word ‘jorts’, something he never thought he’d hear out of the younger man’s mouth in their lifetime, but now he was building up courage. He couldn’t afford to get side tracked.

“Yeah, I think maybe… maybe you should take them off.”

Miles’ eyes grew wide for a moment, then relaxed, as did his smile, and suddenly his grip on Waylon’s hips tighten, pulling them a few inches closer.

“That so?” he whispered against the shell of his ear, “I think I’ll be kinda lonesome all by myself, will you take yours off too? It’d make me feel better.”

A shudder ran down Waylon’s spine, coursing deep into his veins and making his whole body run hot. He turned in Miles’ arms, nodded slowly before catching his bottom lip in his teeth. He had never been one to initiate something like this before, but Miles had been so patient for so long, and Waylon couldn’t wait any longer. His hands gripped Miles’ shoulders, guiding him blindly backwards through the hall and into his bedroom.

The brunet made a noise of surprise as the back of his legs hit the bed, but Waylon’s musings quickly shut him up. He pulled the soiled shirt off Miles and sat back onto the other man’s thighs, finally getting a good look at him. When his hands finally touched the soft, tan skin beneath the fabric, he began absentmindedly tracing his hands all over. Dipping over hard defined muscle and over the ‘v’ of his hips, making Miles’ stomach clench as he exhaled a soft, shallow breath.

It caught Waylon’s attention, and when he looked up there was an amused look on the other man’s face, but his eyes were blown wide in arousal.

“Sorry-“

“Don’t worry,” a warm hand touched Waylon’s cheek, running his thumb slowly along his bottom lip, “You like what you see?”

He nodded, darting a tongue out to rub over the pad of the other man’s thumb. He tasted like salt, and his pectoral muscles were hot under Waylon’s hands, and the look in his eyes turned dark and molten at the sight of the normally shy man committing such an adult act.

“Waylon,” he huffed, “Baby, I gotta know you want this.”

“Of course I do,” he dropped back a bit, “Do you not?”

The brunet kissed the look of worry off his face, a hasty substitute for an answer. Miles was very ready, he obviously had been for a while, and thank god he had waited because that meant everything to the older man. Waylon trusted him, enough to take off his shirt, and let his hands roam over his back, rough calloused fingers scratching his scalp as their tongues clashed and their groins rubbed together through the fabric of their pants.

They broke apart, heaving and blushing like they just ran a marathon through a desert. Miles’ normally perfect hair was mussed and thrown about from Waylon running his fingers through it, and it was nice to know that at least something about the man was human.

“You’re so hot…” murmured Miles, “So, so sexy, Waylon, really-“ He let out a breathy laugh as Waylon whined and hid his face against Miles’ scarlet neck, “How you wanna do this, baby, talk to me?”

“I want…” he thought about what he was going to say. It felt strange, but he thought back to all of the porn he had watched as a teen, all the videos he studied religiously as he discovered that maybe he wasn’t just interested in girls. It seemed so much more intimidating than sex with a girl, and all of the memories he had were of exaggerated scenarios, big hunks and tiny twinks in the backs of cars or in dingy studios. Miles wasn’t like that, but he obviously knew what he was doing, so Waylon could only trust him with the task. “I want you to show me.”

“You’ve never… with a guy?” the embarrassed look on Waylon’s face was obvious, “Okay, it’s fine, really. How ‘bout I show you some stuff, help you relax, okay?”

The blond let himself sink back onto the mattress, pushed by Miles’ weight, but he was still gentle. He never fully relaxed, but when the brunet sucked and licked gently against his neck, his collarbones, all the way down to his sternum, he gradually forgot why he was so worried in the first place.

Miles’ mouth was hot and wet, licking and sucking marks into the pale expanse of skin before him. Waylon had his lip between his teeth, biting down hard and squeezing his eyes shut so he could focus on the noises his body was trying to make.

“Hey,” a soft lilt brought his attention back, “Make noise, it’s okay,” he kissed a mark softly, “I like it.”

Way nodded but still tried to keep it down, just not as hard. Miles moved down to his naval, dipping his tongue into every curve before he reached the band of his jeans. He gave Waylon a small, calculated look, like he was asking for permission, and when he got a shaky thumbs up, he chuckled quietly and hooked his fingers in his belt loops.

“How ‘bout we do colours, alright? Red for stop, yellow for break, green for go,” his thumbs rubbed absentminded circles into the softness of Waylon’s hips, “You tell me red, I’ll stop, and we can go watch a movie or something. You say yellow, we take five, and if everything’s good, you say green, okay?”

That made sense, but Waylon’s brain was foggy with arousal and processing information took a little longer than usual.

“Okay.”

“Good,” Miles kissed his lips one last time before he popped the button to Waylon’s jeans and began pulling the zipper down, “What’s the 10-4, baby?”

“G-green,” he huffed, the slow drag of the zipper on his hardening member torturous.

“Good boy,” hummed Miles, working it the rest of the way down. He put a hand on Waylon’s back, urging him up so he could work his jeans the rest of the way off, revealing his Legend of Zelda boxers, and Waylon cursed himself for not choosing a less embarrassing pair that morning. The other man seemed to pay them no mind, readjusting his grip on the blond’s hips and mouthing him through the fabric of his underwear, “This okay?”

“Ye-Yeah, yes, so good-“ he started rambling, but was cut off when Miles licked a hot stripe across the shape of his hardening length. He let out a loud moan, trying to force his hips to stay still, but Miles knew just what to do, and he was becoming increasingly restless.

When Miles pulled away, Waylon let out a humiliating whine, but the man quickly placed his hand over the wet spot, sitting up a bit, “Got any lube?”

Ignoring the way Miles was kneading his hardening cock, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out a fairly full but unsealed bottle, passing it to the other man. He placed it on the bed beside them, and moved to pull the band of Waylon’s boxers down. The blond arched into the touch, assisting him in getting them off, and letting out a shallow breath when the cool air around them hit his leaking tip.

Miles leant down again, sucking and kissing around his hips, the inside of his thighs, finally up to the sopping head, “How you doing?”

“I’m… I – uh – green, extremely green.”

He let out a small snicker as he engulfed the head into his mouth, earning him a quiet keening sound from Waylon. He was breathing even heavier now, his whole body trembling as Miles slipped lower and lower down his length, swirling with his tongue and holding the base gently with his right hand. Waylon wasn't exceptionally large by any means, proportionate to his petite stature, but still Miles took him like he was a professional. As always, this added to the concoction of intimidation and excitement that was Miles Upshur. 

The sound of a cap popping open caught Waylon’s attention, and he could hear the sounds of lubricant on skin, mixing, probably warming it up. With his elbows, Miles nudged his legs a little further apart, but didn’t let up with his mouth. Even as he brought a slicked finger to Waylon’s entrance, his mouth stayed in place, but he stopped there.

Waylon looked down at him, trying to even his breath and slow his heart rate so he didn’t come at the sight of Miles with his lips stretched around his cock, but it was difficult. There was a bit of spit dripping from his lips, and his face was hot and flushed, and sure, Waylon had been on the receiving end of his fare share of blowjobs in his time, but never like this. Something about the whole situation, his absolute infatuation and admiration for the man who was tending to his every need at the moment, just knocked everything up to an eleven. Feeling safe and being taken care of, that wasn't something Waylon experienced very often.

There was an expectant look in Miles’ eyes, and Waylon realized he must have been staring. The brunet made like he was going to move, but Waylon quickly sputtered out, “Green! It’s okay, I-I’m good.”

Miles smiled, or did his best impression of one with Waylon’s cock pulling his cheeks taut and straining his lips. The finger at his entrance slowly pressed in, making him squirm a bit more, but the larger man used his weight to pin them, not wanting to be gagged any more.

It was strange. Sure, Waylon had done this many times by himself, but never with another person. It wasn’t bad, but a bit intrusive. He felt exposed, more so than he had before, and Miles’ fingers were bigger than his own. He felt nervousness eat at his nerves again.

Until teeth chafed the sensitive skin of his tip, coaxing out a long, drawn out moan. At the same time, Miles moaned as well, and Waylon didn’t even notice as he slipped in another finger.

Now, it was comfortable. The lubricant was warm, and slick, and the slide of two fingers was much better than one. With barely any traction, Miles was stretching, and scissoring, and curling his fingers up into Waylon’s tight heat against his prostate, and he was suddenly torn between bucking up into the wetness of Miles’ mouth, and bearing down on his fingers for relief, which was definitely a tactic the younger man was using to get him more comfortable.

Miles suddenly took Waylon completely, humming quietly as he relaxed his throat, hallowed his cheeks, and buried his nose in the dark blond hairs at his base. How he was still breathing, Waylon had no clue, but he was thankful for it when Miles slipped in a third finger with a bit more resistance than the first two.

After that, he pulled off, still three deep in the quivering man below him. His eyes were dark, feral almost, and he wiped his chin before he brought his hand up to Waylon’s glistening face.

“You’re doing so good, baby, you sure this is your first?” his voice is rough from strain, but the smoothness is still there, and his voice is so gentle and full of adoration it squeezes Waylon’s heart, and he almost falls in love. Almost.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Yeah, but I’ve done this – by myself.”

Mischief lights up on the brunet's face, and suddenly he’s ducking down next to Waylon’s ear as he picks up the pace again with his fingers, “That’s naughty, Way, who’d have thought?” the words are hot against Waylon’s ears and send full-body tremors down his spine, meeting the hot jolts from his backside in the middle. “In this bed?” his flush deepens, “You ever think of me when you’re spoiling yourself, Way?”

“Yes!” he sputters, bearing down on Miles’ hand and clawing at his bare shoulders, “I have – I have-“ he’s trying to bite his tongue, keep the embarrassing confessions back, but the dirty words are really getting to him. Lisa was never one for talking during sex, but he always loved hearing it. Coupled with the traction from three large fingers pressing ever closer to the tight bundle of nerves inside of him, he knows he won't last long.

“I think about you too,” says Miles, “Your mouth on me, your hands in my hair, sometimes I think about my tongue in you-“ that’s probably the filthiest thing anybody has ever said about Waylon and he can feel himself teetering, “Your cock tastes so good, baby, what does the rest of you taste like?”

“M-Miles please,“ he pleads, “I-I’m gonna come-“

“That’s okay,” his tongue darts out against the shell of Waylon’s ear, “Come for me, baby, you deserve it-“

Before he can finish waxing poetic, Waylon’s crying out and coming across his chest and stomach. Miles fingers are still inside him, and he wraps a hand around him as he comes, stroking fast to draw out his pleasure. Tears prick his eyes, he doesn’t think he’s come like that in a long, long time and the aftershocks are intense. Even after it’s over, heaving and sweaty and staring up into Miles’ soft amber eyes, he feels like he’s coming, and it’s as exhausting as it is amazing.

The younger man kisses the corner of his mouth and up his cheeks, wiping away the tears that had slipped out at some point and clearing the tracks they had left. Waylon feels sticky, and he knows he’s sweat into the sheets, but there is no way he’s moving any time soon.

Especially when he opens his mouth to ask Miles for a towel from the laundry hamper across the room, and the man’s tongue licks a streak in the drying semen across his chest.

“Fuck, Miles,” his head falls back against the pillow “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don't always just talk outta my ass, y'know,” he continues to scoop up the release with his tongue, “You taste so good, Waylon, really.” It’s coating his swollen lips, and if Waylon had not just come explosively, he would probably be hard again just from that sight alone.

When the spots leave his vision, and the burning in his lungs is nothing more than an ache, he finally realizes that Miles is still wearing his cut-off jeans, and is achingly hard. Even through the thick fabric (they were very heavy-duty denim) there is an obvious tent, and if it’s anything to go by, Miles is not packing light.

Way pulls Miles up from the chin, and he knows his jaw is probably sore, so he kisses him soft, tenderly, before he moves to undo the shorts.

“Hey,” a battered hand covers his, “I can get rid of it myself, you left more than enough interest at the spank bank.”

The sentiment is nice, and Waylon chuckles, but he continues his work on the belt, pulling it from the loops and onto the floor as Miles kisses him slow, toned arms boxing in his head and making him feel warm and sated. When he finally slips them off, Miles shimmying them onto the floor, he can feel that his assumptions were correct. Miles’ member is straining his boxer-briefs, and the wet spot on the front of the fabric stands out against the grey. When he palms him, Miles grunts softly into his mouth, and he knows that he’s probably hurting right now.

He pulls him out, and right away he’s grinding down in a slow drag against Waylon’s bare hips. He can’t really tell how close he is, but he knows the younger man is slowly losing composure. The noises he’s making are becoming more and more desperate, and his kisses sloppier. When Waylon finally wraps a hand around him, he makes a soft noise, and Waylon smiles, because Miles is never quiet about anything.

He has enough in him now to manoeuvre Miles over onto his back so he can hover over him. His face is damp with sweat and glowing when it hits the light, he must feel just how Waylon felt a few minutes ago, and he’s blushing all down his smooth chest and neck. He’s well groomed everywhere, hairs completely shaven, maybe even waxed, and trimmed down. He looks like he’s sculpted from marble, but his cock, although larger than Waylon’s own, is crooked and curved to the left, so he adds that to the list of proof that Miles Upshur is in fact, human.

He’s never given anybody a blowjob, but now seems like a better time than ever, considering who he is with. So, he moves down Miles’ body and leaves butterfly kisses along his swollen shaft, letting his tongue lave over the head a bit. It tastes strange and it’s a bit jarring, but he deals, and keeps working at it until he can get the courage to do more.

“Hey, really, you don’t have to,” the words are sincere, but Waylon can see that if he doesn’t get release soon, Miles is going to be in trouble.

“I want to, just-“ he takes a deep breath, “Tell me how I’m doing.”

Finally, he takes that plunge, and wraps his lips around the head. Miles’ hips are tense, his thighs flex around Waylon’s body a bit, even as the blond runs a soothing hand over them they don’t let up. He knows you should cover your teeth, and he thinks back to what he liked about it, and goes on that. He slowly works down, which he’s sure is agonizing for Miles, so he’s thankful that he’s been so patient. He uses his tongue, and hollows his cheeks, and gets down so far that his throat catches, warning him he’s going to gag.

“Hum,” instructs Miles, “If you need to, it’s good for both of us.”

His hands are clenched in the sheets, Waylon knows he wants to bury his fingers in his hair, so as he lets up, he grabs his hands and pulls them towards his head. The feeling of hands in his hair is grounding, he likes it, and the dull ache of a pull is somewhat of a turn on for him.

Like he was told, Waylon hums a bit, a low moan as Miles tugs at his roots, and it is much easier. His throat is a little tighter, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to gag, so he hollows his cheeks and he picks up the pace. The saliva and precum in his mouth is building up, slipping past the seal of his lips, so he swallows, and Miles lets out a loud moan into the open air of the bedroom, coupled by a wrench of his hair that has him letting out an even needier whine around the cock in his mouth. There is no grace or tact involved, but he seems to be doing a good enough job, because Miles is tensed and looking even more wrecked by the second, letting out quiet curses and absentmindedly tugging at tufts of the blond's locks.

That’s when he notices himself getting hard again.

Waylon’s not very young. Sure, he’s still got a lot of life left in him, but he’s not a teenager anymore, and he’s had enough sex in his life that his refractory period is more than a few minutes. Maybe it’s the dirty talk, or maybe it’s been longer than a few minutes, but it’s most likely due to the praise Miles is showering him, and the unsteady jerk of his hand in Waylon’s sandy blond tresses.

“Oh fuck, you’re good at this-“ pants Miles, “Christ, oh fuck, Waylon-“

He moans again, and reaches a hand between his legs. He is still much too oversensitive to touch, but if he bends enough his tip rubs against the soft silken sheets, and that’s enough for now.

“Can you -“ he makes a cupping gesture with his hands, and Waylon gets the picture. With his free hand, he reaches to Miles’ sack and squeezes it gently. “Oh shit, baby, just like that.”

It’s strange to Waylon, he never thought he would enjoy giving head this much. It’s not so much the act itself as it is the steady stream of curses and compliments that are pouring from the brunet’s mouth. It wasn’t so long ago that Waylon was afraid to meet Miles, worried he would be disappointed with him or lose interest. Now, here he was, putty in Waylon’s hands, and subject to the mercy of his unskilled mouth.

“I’m gonna-“ he uses a bit more force to drag Waylon off him, but he obviously doesn’t want to. The brunet’s eyes are hooded and his free hand is clenched into a tight ball, but he must have wanted to save Waylon from the assault of his release, which is thoughtful, but now he was still hard, and Waylon was starting to be as well.

When he moves to palm himself, Waylon bats his hands away, and moves to sit on his thighs. Their cocks are just centimeters away, and if Waylon were to lean over even just an inch, they’d be touching.

“I want you.”

Miles’ face goes blank, unreadable.

“I want you to...”

So the man leans up, and the kiss is surprisingly chaste for how compromising a position they’re in.

“Whatever you want,” he pants, “Anything for you. Come here,” they kiss again, a little more teeth than before, then Waylon’s reaching into the beside drawer to pull out an unopened packet of condoms he told himself were for a special occasion, when really they were just months away from their charitable expiration date.

Luckily, they’re not too different in size, so Waylon is able to slip one onto Miles no problem, and pour a generous amount of the lubricant over him. It might be too much, Waylon doesn’t care, he’s really nervous about this. On the other hand, when is he not?

“How should we…” he trails off, absolutely no clue as to what position would be best, for him, or Miles, or what’s easiest.

“On your knees would probably be best,” he speaks softly and carefully, “What do you think?”

“Can we try like this?” he motions to their current state, Miles underneath him while he straddles his lap.

Miles nods, “Maybe later, but it’ll be easier on you for your first, ‘kay, baby?”

The words aren’t meant to make Waylon feel patronized or immature, but he does feel a prick of annoyance. It’s short-lived, since Miles helps him over and begins slowly working him open again, just in case. Then, as he’s done many times before, drapes himself over Waylon as he has so many times before.

“I’ll go slow,” he kisses behind his ears, “Remember to tell me how you’re feeling.”

Waylon nods and bites his lip. Miles lines himself up, and nudges Waylon’s legs a bit further. The position is a bit difficult, he can feel the muscles in his inner thighs straining already, but if Miles says this is what will be best, then that’s that.

The slide is slow, agonizingly so. He’s glad he’s not the only one who thinks so, because without warning Miles bites down on the junction between his neck and shoulder, obviously trying to hold it together. Waylon feels bad, Miles has been hard for so long, and he’s been nothing but patient.

Miles did a good job stretching him, so he tests the waters a bit, slowly pushing back. It stings, but it’s a good kind, a kind that doesn’t let him get too distracted, so he uses his weight to snap back, burying Miles to the hilt.

He curses, and the grip around Waylon’s hips is bruising. It hurts, yeah, but he’s had worse, and the way the tapered head pulls and drags against his walls is heaven. He moans loudly, muffled only a bit by the sheets, but it’s not pained so Miles must get the memo. He pulls out halfway, slow and calculated, then he slams back into Waylon, stopping completely.

“How you doing?”

“Good-“ his voice breaks, “I’m good, green, so, so green-“

“That wasn’t very smart, Waylon, you could’ve really hurt yourself-“ Miles’ breath hitches and his head falls to Waylon’s shoulder as he rolls his hips back, affectively shutting the younger man up.

After that, Miles knows Waylon’s fine, and he takes advantage of it. He knows he won’t last long, so he builds a steady rhythm, coaxing all sorts of noises from the blond. He’s glad they decided on this, because he’s sure the faces he’s making are not so flattering, so he buries his face further in the sheets and rocks his weight to meet Miles in the middle of a thrust.

Despite how desperate he is to come, Miles reaches around and wraps his hand around Waylon’s now leaking cock, fully hard and glistening. He pumps in time with his thrusts, twisting his wrist around the head and squeezing a little too hard, but it’s exactly what Waylon needs to push him over that edge a second time.

His thrusts become erratic, as well as his noises. They’re still soft, small grunts that are almost masked by the sound of skin against skin around them and the squelching of access lubricant inside of Waylon’s walls. He bites down on the mark he already left on Waylon’s neck as he comes, hips stilling, and the older man uses the opportunity to take control and work himself on Miles’ slowly softening cock.

The brunet pulls out before he can get there, but he finds it in himself to help Waylon out after. He’s not quite as loud this time as he comes, but it’s still earth-shattering, and now they’re both sticky and sated. Miles even has the sense to pull the condom off, tie it off, and throw it in the bin before falling back with Waylon onto the soiled sheets.

Waylon’s head is buzzing. It’s not a bad kind, he doesn’t feel like he has a migraine coming on, it’s a nice kind. He feels like he just ran a race, adrenaline coursing through his body and sweat soaking into his pours, but he also feels like he’s been basking in the sun all day, rays warming his skin and showering his freckled body in light. He’s never felt this way, not once in his life, and Miles looks the same. He’s staring dreamily at Waylon, but his eyes are a bit cloudy. With the cleaner of his hands, Waylon wipes the brunet’s hair from his sweat-soaked forehead, and takes a better look at his kiss-swollen lips and his blushing cheeks.

“I’m glad we waited,” said Waylon, “I feel like… that was special, you know? It wouldn’t have been the same if we didn’t wait.”

After he says it, he realizes how dumb that sounds. Its no secret that Miles is experienced in the sex department, tonight is even more proof of that, and Waylon knows he had been waiting for Waylon to put out, and was more than a little patient with him. They had been on more dates than he could count on his fingers, even Waylon was surprised it took him this long.

“Me too.”

“Really?” Waylon perks up, and Miles is smiling a golden smile up at him that melts his heart.

“Yeah, I mean, I’d be biased if I said I wasn’t a one night stand kinda guy but… you’re special, Waylon. Really.”

He’s already a bit sensitive, but that was more than expected. Waylon feels like he could cry, but he settles on burying his face in Miles’ shoulder, and listening to the way his breaths even out. He’s so tired, and he feels like there are weights on his eyelashes, so he curls up against Miles, and he falls asleep to the sound of somebody else’s heartbeat for the first time in a long time.

By the time morning rolls around, something has changed. It’s not really noticeable, it’s something that’s been on the backdrop for a while, but it’s here now. Waylon wakes first, peeling himself from Miles and the bed sheets that he curses because he just washed them! Halfway through brushing his teeth, Miles drags himself in, and he leans his weight onto Waylon without a word.

They’re both in their underwear now, but the evidence of their night is still clear. Waylon’s got a dark, blossomed bruise on his neck from where Miles latched onto him while coming, and finger prints on his hips, with countless other marks peppered across his chest and stomach. He’s never been one for rough sex, their night wasn’t really rough to be quite honest, but he likes that he has something to show for it. The one on his neck will be a bitch to cover up, but he feels the strange urge to wear it like a trophy.

Miles isn’t much better. He has scratch marks on his back, shoulders, and sides that Waylon didn’t even realize he had given him. There are suck bruises on his collarbones, hickies on his stomach, peeking above the band of his briefs, even a few on his jaw and up his neck, but he knows Miles doesn’t care. Miles is proud of whatever he does, he doesn’t know if the man has ever felt shame in his life.

They have another round in the shower. They’re both sleepy, so it’s not quite the marathon they had the night before, but it’s still great. Miles takes Waylon against the wall, letting him fuck his face as he jerks himself off into the water pooling around the drain. It’s not rushed, until they both come and the steaming water against their backs start to cool, and suddenly they're in a race against time.

Waylon makes them breakfast. There’s a slight limp in his step that radiates up his backside every time he takes a step onto his left leg, but he kind of likes it. Miles insists on helping him make the breakfast wraps, but Waylon’s heard enough horror stories about Miles’ endeavours in the kitchen to know that’s not a good idea. Besides, he can tell Miles is watching him limp around, hiding the smirk on his face like he doesn’t enjoy it.

As they eat around the kitchen island, Miles’ hand on his thigh and pressing kisses to his lips that taste like bacon and coffee, he’s struck with the realization that the thing that had been sneaking around his subconscious for so long was out in the forefront.

They were boyfriends.

Miles was Waylon’s boyfriend.

Sure, there was no official press conference or proposal, no grand gesture of love and devotion, but they both knew it was true. It was left unsaid that they were mutually exclusive, and it was finally brought up about three weeks later when Miles slept over and drove them to get coffee from their usual place before dropping Waylon off at work.

There had been no clean clothes in his drawers. Work had been a bit hectic and he hated laundry anyway, so that morning Waylon pulled on his jeans from the day before and stole one of the hoodies that had taken permanent residence in his closet. The look on Miles’ face was enough to let him know that this would not be a one-time incident.

Just as she was every Saturday morning, the usual barista greeted Waylon, took his order, then gave an especially chipper greeting to Miles. Of course he took it in stride, chatting her up with his usual suaveness and charm, but never crossing into more intimate territory. Eventually the customers behind him started to complain so she let him make his way over to where Waylon was waiting for him at their usual booth.

He knew Miles was just being polite, but it still bothered him that she would even dare flirt with him whilst Waylon was standing right next to him. Yeah, Miles was only interested in men (one man in particular) but Waylon already had his qualms with his image; the thought of his 100% gay boyfriend leaving him for a woman didn't seem so unrealistic when he considered the more unsavoury sides to himself.

“So I think this protest will do some good, y’know? Pride’s not a corporate thing.”

Waylon immersed himself in the story, trying to fight back the earlier unwarranted jealousy.

“Yeah, it sucks that all these big business are just trying to get an in because they know it’s more acceptable now.”

“Exactly!” Miles had that look on his face that he got when he was talking about a tough case, “Especially that Blaire prick. He thinks he can come onto our turf after years of trying to pass all those stupid bylaws? He’s got another thing coming, I swear.”

“I’m sure he does.” Waylon couldn’t help but smile. He had never seen anybody so passionate about things like this before, and when Miles got all riled up, it was absolutely adorable. Yeah, Waylon was upset about it too, but Miles was one of the people who got up and did something about it. He was a hero, even if he would never admit it.

They were suddenly interrupted by the barista placing their drinks in front of them. “Here’s your cold brew, Miles,” she ended her sentence with a spurious smile, and an extra long bend as she put the drinks down.

“What about Waylon’s white chocolate mocha?” it was an obvious bite at her, but Miles’ face would never show it. She turned to once-over Waylon in the seat across from him.

“Oh, yeah, that too, listen-“ she turned her attention back to Miles, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve got this friend from Denver, real rich parents, she’s having a barbecue on Sunday-“

She went on to explain some elaborate set up for a party that could have been summed up in a few words. Of course, as always, Miles politely waited for her to finish before he could turn her down. It was the usual, same old card she always read, some party or event coming up that she needed a date for, Waylon just tried to drown it out by sipping his boiling drink.

Until she laid her hand on Miles’ arm halfway through her story, leaning even further into his space and cutting off Waylon’s line of sight with the big, red bun on the top of her head.

“Oh come on, just cut to the chase so he can say no already.”

It was so out of character, but he was completely fed up. The look of surprise on Miles’ face was cut with an amused smirk that he wanted to kiss off, and it only grew when she shot Waylon an incredulous look without removing her hand.

“I’m sorry, but did I ask you?”

“No, but if you want to take him on a date, you should ask me.”

“Oh, really?” she put her free hand on her hip, “and why is that?”

“Because I’m his boyfriend!”

Waylon felt the cup cave a bit under his finger tips and forced himself to relax. Miles’ face was even more shocked, but nothing compared to the slack-jawed glare of the barista.

She yanked her hand away from Miles’ bicep like she had been stung, taking a step back and dusting her hands on her apron.

“I am - I'm so...“ she began blushing furiously, “I had no idea – I’m sorry – I'll just-“

Before they could comment further, she disappeared into the back. The confidence had come from somewhere in Waylon that he didn’t even knew existed, a possessiveness that he had never felt before, but from the slanted grin on Miles’ face, he sure seemed to like it.

“So,” he brought his coffee to his face, “I’m your boyfriend?”

They had never said it out loud, and when the realization hit him, Waylon’s face turned a darker red than his sweater, and he let his forehead fall against the cold granite of the table to hide it.

“Waylon!” Miles laughed, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Waylon, baby, ‘course I’m your boyfriend! I’m just teasing.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Waylon hated that he could still hear the impish grin in the man’s voice.

“I do, I want to break up.”

“Oh, I’ll just call Ms. Barista back and we can work out that-“

“No!” Waylon’s head snapped up and he gripped Miles’ wrists tightly, “Absolutely not! I’m your boyfriend, I said no!”

The laugh that emitted from the younger man’s mouth broke through the tension in the air, making even Waylon crack a small smile. The barista did not return for the duration of their visit, where they talked over plans they had for the weekend with Blake. Apparently he was having a rough go at his and Lynn’s new job, and he wanted to go out for drinks or something while she was away visiting her parents.

When the day finally came, Miles helped Waylon pick out an outfit. Tight-fitting jeans he had abandoned at the back of his closet after a rather drunken online shopping spree, and a black military style jacket with red trim that Miles had apparently owned since high school, with a plain black shirt underneath. The bomber had buttons and patches all over it, obscure bands that were even before his time, a few television shows that still had reruns on cable, that sort of thing. It wasn’t up for debate, Miles spent a long time going through Waylon’s closet looking for something before throwing his hands in the air, pulling his own clothes from his duffel bag, and throwing them on the bed.

“Uh Miles?” he called into the bathroom, picking at a patch on his side that looked like maybe the Misfits logo? Or it could have been the X-Files? It was so old and torn, it was beyond the point of recognition.

“Yeah, babe?”

The younger man stepped out of the bathroom, a black leather jacket in replace of his usual classic beige, and his hair a little messier than usual. It looked like he had used more gel, tousled it just enough to get that purposefully messy look, which reminded Waylon of his sex hair. How he would manage to get around normally with Miles looking fresh out of the bedroom, he had no clue.

“Don’t you think this is a little…” he motioned to the oversized jacket.

“Radical?”

Waylon frowned, “Not the outdated slang I was going for.”

“You look good, Way,” he stepped into the bedroom, wrapping his arms around the smaller man and turning him so he faced the mirror, “Look, we even match! Like a real couple!”

Despite their relationship teetering on three months now, it was still fresh, and the praise and notion of looking like a real couple had him blushing and hiding his face in Miles’ cologne-coated neck.

“You always say I look good…” he mumbled, burying his hands in the seat pockets of Miles’ jeans.

“Because you always do,” he kissed the crown of Waylon’s head, “Now come on, we’re gonna be late, and I don’t need another earful from Blakerton about standing him up over sex.”

The bar was alive with sound and lights by the time they got there. It was fairly new, but had been open long enough that the bouncer at the door let everybody through. There was a small Friday crowd that was easily navigated, especially when trailing behind a boisterous Miles that split crowds wherever he went. Within minutes they found Blake, saving their seats at a table across from the bar.

“Waylon!” he stood, engulfing the smaller man in his broad chest, “I missed you, buddy, Miles is such a dick, saving you all to himself." 

He returned the embrace, “You too, Blake, sorry. Things have been so crazy.”

“It’s no problem,” when he let go of Waylon his hand shot out to Miles, and they did some sort of dorky handshake that had the oldest man snorting and hiding his face like he was embarrassed to be seen with them.

“So what’s new with you, Blakey, how’s the job?”

Blake passed them the beers he had ordered, and began telling them his story from the past few weeks. It was a bigger news station, not just Colorado-wide. This would have been exciting, if it weren’t for the fact that their primary director was a sexist douchebag and had been giving Lynn shit for the entirety of their employment. It was strange to imagine Lynn Langermann, primary source of direction for all of their lives, sitting back and taking abuse from some rich asshole behind a desk. Apparently, he even compared her to Blake, despite them not even having the same jobs. Blake was a cameraman, not a reporter, but still it was always “Leanne, why can’t you be more like your husband!” or “Linda, I bet your old man wouldn’t mess up three takes in a row!”

She left Blake on bad terms, urging him to stay behind while she made the trip to Maryland for the week. It had been eating him up ever since, hence the spontaneous boys night out.

“Now she’s in Baltimore ‘til Tuesday and I’m fucking losing it!” his hands were buried in his hair and his head was between his forearms, the spitting image of a man in a crisis. “I mean, what if she wants me to quit? Like sh-should I say something to the guy? What if we both get fired! Her parents already hate me, and I just-“

“Blake, gear down, big rig,” Miles pat him on the shoulder lightly, “It’s not the end of the world. Knowing Lynn, she’ll probably give it to ‘em good when she’s fed up, and if you don’t keep the job, that’s their loss.”

The raven-haired man let his head slump to the side, glasses falling slightly askew on his nose, “You’re right, let’s just get drunk.”

“Now we’re talking!” Miles gave him a hardy slap on the back and stood from the table. He enquired about what everybody wanted, left to retrieve it, and when he returned he had not just their ordered drinks, but also a platter of dark blue shots in hand, and slid them onto the table.

Waylon eyed them cautiously, “What’re these?”

He motioned to the hulking bartender, “Big guy says they’re called Walriders. Sounds ominous enough, will probably get you fucked pretty quick.”

Before Waylon could inquire on what exactly that meant, Blake’s hand shot out and he downed two in a matter of seconds, gasping for breath like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Oh god,” he clutched his chest, “Those are fucking nasty, Miles! What the fuck did you give me?“

“Sorry, I can go ask for something better-“

“No, I’m good,” his demeanour calmed and he threw back another, face grimacing in disgust but not quite as bad as the first time. Blake was a fun guy, a real gentle giant, and when he wasn’t stressed, everybody around him had a good time. If he was drinking like this, he must be pretty on-edge.

Waylon sipped at his Old Fashioned and let his tongue run across his lips. It was a bit bitterer than he had been expecting, but still tasty, and it would definitely do the job. As he leaned back into his seat, his shoulders were met by Miles’ arm, draped across the back of his chair. He noticed then how close they were sitting, the younger man’s right side warm against his left and if Waylon relaxed just a bit more, he could rest his head on his shoulder. It was nice to be so close to somebody, even if it was subtle.

But then again, was anything Miles did subtle? Waylon had dated Lisa for five years, they were quite comfortable with each other, but when you’re with your high school sweetheart that long, sometimes things just wear off. By the end, she never wanted to hold hands or kiss in public, she would barely even let him hold her when they watched TV. Their breakup was tough, but a long time coming.

“How’s that?”

Way looked up at Miles at the sound of his voice, quiet like there was a need for privacy. His eyes were clouded by the shadow and the black lights at the bar, but the silver earrings he had picked out for the night were glowing slightly. He looked like he belonged in a place like this, which made it all the more confusing that he was interested in the tech.

“That good, eh?”

His lips curled into a smirk and Waylon dragged his eyes away, realizing that he had yet again, been caught staring.

“It’s fine, thanks,” he motioned to the beer in his boyfriend’s hand, “Where’s yours?”

“I’m driving home, so this is good enough.”

Waylon turned in his seat, “Miles, we can get a cab. You should enjoy yourself, you’re so stressed over this protest.” Without thinking, he raised a hand to the larger man’s chest, and in return he covered it with his own.

“Don’t worry about it, I was planning on driving anyway. Besides, can’t leave the baby in that alley, somebody’ll definitely take her for a joyride.”

The blond let out a small huff of a laugh and turned back to his drink, letting his head fall back to the crook of Miles’ shoulder. Their hands stayed linked, falling to their laps, and when he caught sight of Blake over the rim of his glass, the man’s face was dripping in amusement.

“Okay, one, nobody’s interested in stealing that death machine you call a Jeep. Two, you guys are so cute it’s…” he downed the final shot with a short grimace, “kinda gross.”

“Gross you say?” the smirk on Miles’ face turned unsettling, and suddenly there was a hand on Waylon’s chin, and chapped, beer-laced lips on his own, and he was swimming in the cologne Miles was wearing. It took him a moment to react, but when he wrapped his arms loosely around the taller man’s leather-clad shoulders and pulled him in, Miles’ tongue prodded his lips, across his teeth, slid across the velvety expanse of his tongue, and he almost forgot where they were until-

“Oh fucking nasty!”

Waylon snorted into the kiss and turned away, wiping his mouth and giving Blake an apologetic look. Way and Miles couldn’t have been more different, but they also had a mutual distrust of other people, and a lack of self worth that had been holding them back for some time. So yes, he was obviously disgusted, but really Blake was happy for both of them. Happy they found each other, that things were working out, and that they were still in their honeymoon phase.

He couldn’t say the same for the men across the bar, on the other side of Blake. They were big, not too tall but easily twice the width of Waylon, and angry looking. The lights were dim, but their disgusted looks were clear as day, hidden behind their pints and voices drowned from the dull roar of the patrons around them. Waylon didn’t let it get to him, this was his night, and nothing could ruin it.

The night was full of anecdotes of friendship and camaraderie, with Miles sipping a beer and later a Dr. Pepper, Waylon only drinking enough to feel warm and a little buzzed, and Blake drinking the couple and everybody around them under the table. He was a tall guy, a head and a half over Waylon easily, but he drank enough to put a horse to sleep. By the time they were set to leave, Blake was gripping the shoulders of both his friends’ jackets, and letting them haul him out the door into the crisp autumn night.

A few meters down from the entrance, Miles paused, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a carton of cigarettes and his trusty zippo. The cigs, coupled with his styled hair and leather jacket reminded Waylon of some sixties movie, like he was straight out of West Side Story or something. If Waylon had one more drink, he might have even told Miles that.

“Smoke, Blake?” he pulled two from the carton, showing them to the inebriated man. This seemed to sober him a bit, straighten his back and rub the back of his neck.

“I don’t know, Lynn’d kill me.”

Miles pulled two of the sticks out with a small chuckle, “What, you planning on telling her?” he put the two in his mouth and lit them both, handing one off to Blake who took a casual drag. Waylon had never seen him smoke before, but maybe it was because he saved it for occasions like this. Really, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen Blake without Lynn at his side.

“You good, Way?” a warm arm slipped around his shoulders, “Cold?”

“A little, yeah,” it wasn’t exactly a lie, but he also wanted an excuse to press against Miles again. He smelt so good, and felt so warm, and the smell of tobacco swirling around them mixing with his cologne was even more intoxicating than the drinks. He was shameless as he slid his way into the space of his boyfriend’s opened jacket, and slid his other hand into his back pocket.

Okay, maybe he was a little drunker than he thought.

But Miles paid it no mind, and continued his smoke in the dingy streetlights. Blake was a rambler who couldn’t hold his tongue when he was drunk, but they didn’t mind. It wasn’t too late, they could afford a few more moments of companionship.

“Still going to that protest, eh?”

He was referencing the highly anticipated rally two weeks from Saturday, which Waylon had heard all about. Well, he had heard a bit from Miles, but the exact nature of the protest other than ‘show those corporate queerbaiting assholes’ was kept vague.

“Oh yeah, got my outfit lined up and everything.”

That made Blake’s neutral expression turn into one of distaste. “Please think about it,” he exhaled a thick plume of smoke towards the street, “You don’t always have to be on the front lines, you know.”

“Where else would I be?” he made a grand gesture with his hand that wasn’t around Waylon, “Besides, it’s important.”

“I know it’s important, but you’re a journalist, not a… I don’t know, I can’t think of anything right now.” He sniffed and pushed his glasses back up his nose, “Point is, you’re always getting yourself hurt, maybe sit this one out for a change.” His words were slurred and a bit muffled around the cigarette, but the look on his face was sincere. Blake was obviously really worried about his friend, and that in turn worried Waylon.

The brunet shook his head, “Not my forte, you know that. But hey,” he put a hand on Blake’s shoulder “Thanks for looking out for me, man. You and Lynn gonna cover it?”

“We’re trying.”

Blake snuffed out his mostly finished cigarette, while Miles continued his down to the filter, almost letting it burn his fingers. Waylon’s complex didn’t allow smoking, and he had already gotten Waylon into shit for smoking out his window a few days ago, so he had been cutting back a bit, trying to get into the habit of timing them right.

When he finished, he fished for his keys and offered Blake a ride, but he assured him that he’d call a cab, and message them when he got home safe. Miles seemed convinced enough, and linked fingers with Waylon as they said goodbye and started their way back to the lot where they parked the Jeep.

That was when they ran into the two men from the bar, Waylon almost smacking face-first into one of them but Miles pulled him back last minute. Up close they looked even worse, both glaring daggers into the couple with gross sneers and flared nostrils. Not only that, but they reeked like booze.

“Oh sorry guys,” Miles raised his hands defensively, “Didn’t see you there.”

He moved to step aside but one of the big brutes raised a finger and poked him square in the chest, “Watch where y’er goin’ next time, queer.”

The man spat the last word like it pained him to say. The other man’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe it either. Panic surged through Waylon, and his grip around Miles immediately loosened.

“Benji, what are you-“

“Sorry, what the fuck did you just say?” Miles straightened and shuffled a bit so Waylon was behind him.

“Sorry,” the brother started again, “He really can’t hold his liquor. Benji, c’mon-“

“Y’heard me!” spouted Benji, “Fuckin’ fags think you c’n come to a nice estab-establishment like this and just-“ he made a wild gesture with his hands, “Fuck up the order a’ shit!”

Waylon flinched when a hand came down on his shoulder, but he realized it was Blake, who had heard the commotion start and came over to investigate. He was trying to pull them away from the irate man, who began cursing at his brother when he too was being pulled away.

“Charlie! Get th’fuck off me! They gotta learn they can’t just-“

“Oh, what, you’re gonna teach me a lesson, is that it?” Miles shrugged Blake’s hand from his shoulder, giving him leeway to step into the sneering man’s face. “Big talk for such a small man-“

Waylon heard more than saw the fist connect with his cheek, and suddenly everybody scrambled. Charlie grabbed his brother around the shoulders and started to drag him away, Waylon’s weight fell back onto Blake, and he almost thought it had knocked him out until the pain waned momentarily, revealing Charlie’s panicked face and Miles’ wide-set shoulders ducked to the side.

In seconds, Miles had him on the ground. One fist tight in his jacket, the other raised above his head, the brunet sat atop the man and punched him once across the face, his head smacking back into the pavement with the jolting blow.

Of course Waylon was panicking. Between the pain in his face, the wetness on his upper lip, and the sound of the man’s head hitting the sidewalk, he was starting to hyperventilate. It had been months since his last panic attack, and this was working out to be one of his biggest since high school.

“B-Blake!” he stammered, “Do something, please!”

Blinded by rage, Miles almost lashed out at Blake as he pulled him back. Waylon watched in awe as he repeated his name, reaching out to touch him softly and not agitate him further. It seemed to work, his fist relaxed, dropping Benji back to the pavement, his twin moving in to cradle his head and see if he was still conscious.

When he stood, his head fell back, like he was staring at the sky with sightless eyes. There was a bit of a crowd by the wall, people who had stopped to watch the short-lived fight and share hushed opinions, but Miles didn’t notice. There was warm blood on his knuckles, from Benji or himself, Waylon couldn’t quite tell. He just watched him, chest heaving, fists curled tight at his sides. Miles was barely recognizable.

“Miles…” he stammered, and finally his chin fell. There was a bruise blossoming on his jaw, presumably from where the twin had landed a lucky shot, and his eyes were hard. As he caught sight of the darkening patch on Waylon’s cheek and the blood dripping from his nose, his eyes softened, and he stepped forward with his hand reaching out to him.

“How bad did he get you?”

Waylon stepped into the space, letting Miles bury the outstretched hand into his locks and pull him together. So much for his nice white shirt, Waylon was probably getting blood and tears all over it. He didn’t seem to mind, clutching him back and hiding his face in his neck so he didn’t see as Charlie picked his slowly waking brother up, and dragged him off.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “So, so sorry.” He pulled away and cupped Waylon’s face in his hands, “How’s your nose? Anything broken?” He kept his fingers away from the main swelling on his cheek, inspecting the damage carefully. It didn’t matter; Waylon’s entire face was numb.

“No, I-I don’t think so,” his hands fisted the sleeves of the leather jacket, “Miles, what did you do?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated over and over, pulling Waylon against him again. His hands were in his hair, soothing him from his panic, and he could hear Blake talking with somebody in the background, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying, or whom it was exactly. The crowd around them was making him claustrophobic, and he flinched when Miles raised his head and spat a dollop of blood onto the pavement beside them.

The bartender, who Waylon now knows as Chris, called them a cab. They left the Wrangler for the night and filed into the cab with Blake, and not once did Miles let go of Waylon. The Cabbie looked uncomfortable, but Blake’s less than sober small talk distracted him from two bloody and eerily quiet men clutching each other in his backseat.

Blake made sure they made it to the apartment safely, hovering a bit as they assured him they would be fine, but turning them down when Way offered for him to stay the night instead of cabbing to the other side of town.

Miles lead him to the bathroom quietly, making him sit on the toilet lid as he searched the cabinets for supplies. When he uncovered the first aid kit, he set it on the granite sink top and began fishing through it for antiseptic wipes.

He found them and set to work, gently dabbing the blood from Waylon’s lip and the underside of his nose. Both of them were quiet, the only noise in the whole apartment their soft breathes and the sound of Waylon’s furnace working double time to compensate for the freezing midnight air.

“Kinda familiar, right?” said Miles, “Normally it’s the other way around though.”

The smile he gave Waylon was pathetic. It didn’t suit him at all.

“It shouldn’t be familiar,” the blond gripped his hand mid-wipe, “Getting beaten for being together isn’t normal.”

An apologetic look flickered across Miles face as he leaned back on his haunches, sighing quietly as he tossed the soiled wipes into the bin.

“For you, but it’s been… I’ve been dealing with it my whole life. First it was my dad, then it was the kids on my football team, I just-“ he bit his lip, eyes meeting Waylon’s, “That punch was for me. You shouldn’t have to deal with this, baby, I’m so sorry you had to-“

Waylon cut him off with a kiss. Immediately his mouth was coated in the taste of blood and ash, but Miles had begun crying, and Waylon had never seen him cry before. It was unsettling, jarring, he couldn’t take it, and before he knew it, he was crying too.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry…” he murmured, “It’s okay Miles, really, I’m alright-“

“You’re not!” he cried, “I saw the look on your face when he called us fags, you’ve never been called that before!” The sobs that wracked his body were violent, ducking his head to hide it in Waylon’s shoulder. “What if he broke your nose, huh? How would I ever forgive myself! I-I’m used to it but I deserve it, you don’t, Way.”

“Miles, you don’t-“

“I do!” he pushed the blond away, “I’m just a fucking faggot who never shuts up!”

Waylon’s brow furrowed, “If you’re just a faggot, then what does that make me?”

“You’re not a faggot, Waylon,” Miles spat, “You’re just... I don’t know, you’re normal. You don’t overcompensate everything like I have to. And now that you know, you’re gonna leave, ‘cause they always do…”

His eyes were trained to the floor, tracing the cracked tile in the very centre, but still Waylon could see the pain there. Years and years of being out and fighting the good fight had taken a toll on Miles, one he couldn’t begin to understand, and it was finally catching up to him. The false optimism their relationship built shattered over a few words and thrown fists.

“Miles,” he gripped his chin gently, “I’m not leaving.”

Watery amber eyes rose to meet his own.

“I love you. I love you a lot, and just because it’s difficult… doesn’t change anything,” he leaned in to rest their foreheads together, “You’ve got a lot more experience in this than me, which sucks, but I knew what I was getting myself into when I fell in love with you.”

Miles was eerily quiet. His breathing was quieting slowly, starting to become more controlled, and he shifted a bit so he could grip Waylon’s hips.

“You love me?”

It was barely a whisper, but it was as if he yelled it. The realization of his confession hitting him in the face harder than any punch, but he couldn’t take it back, not now.

“Yes,” he gasped, “God yes, Miles, I love you so much.”

Miles let out a heaving sob, pulling Waylon from the edge of the lid and onto his lap, letting them both fall back onto the chill tile of the floor. Ignoring the ache in his face, Waylon buried his head into the other man’s chest and wrapped his arms around his neck in a suffocating grip, but Miles’ own hold around his ribs was equally as breathtaking.

“I love you too,” he whispered, “So much, Waylon, it scares me sometimes how fast I fell for you.”

Between the weeping and confessions, Waylon realized the absurdity of it all. Nothing about the night had been normal, and it never was with Miles, but he had just shown Waylon an uncomfortable side to his personality that had barely seen the light of day, and that touched him deeply.

“I just told you I loved you on my bathroom floor…”

A sharp bark of a laugh left Miles’ mouth, and he promptly picked the blond up from the thighs, carrying him to the bedroom

The night was filled with more sweet confessions, soft touches of mouths on skin, marking, and whispered words. Many things were said, as they often were with Waylon, who was a nervous rambler and still feeling the affects of his few whiskey sours from earlier in the evening. Despite the volatility of the confessions, none were more important then the next, but maybe the most prominent one came shortly after both men had reached their finished, panting and sweating into the sheets below them. 

"Move in?" gasped Waylon into the brunet's shoulder. "Move in with me?" 

"I thought you'd never ask." 

He was met with a mischievous grin, a soft set of pouting lips, and in the morning, multitudes of books, clothes, and small trinkets that Miles had collected over the years.

Saturday came, a biting afternoon, signalling Winter's arrival and the day of the protest. Waylon roused from his sleep due to a soft kiss on his cheek and the shuffling of sheets, barely any light shining in from the window across the room. By the time he woke completely, Miles’ side of the bed was cold, and he shivered in the absence of another body.

Ever since the night they confessed to each other, the night at the bar with Blake, Waylon couldn’t tear his mind away from this day. Sure, he had always known intolerance was still rampant in America, but the fact that it was still so close to home here in Colorado shook him to the core. He had never experienced anything like that first hand, and now Miles was out there like so many others, fighting for solidarity. As he drank his morning coffee and chewed his normal sugary cereal, his thoughts were of Miles and Miles only.

He had planned a job today; a routine maintenance job at some law firm that needed some system maintenance after a big crash. It was important, they needed to get back online soon, but Waylon wasn’t about to go in, work a job like that, while he had absolutely no idea what Miles was up to, or what kind of state the accident-prone man was in. So he finished breakfast, called the law firm and told them he was ill, and took a shower before pulling on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and the same jacket he had worn the night they went out for drinks with Blake. He didn’t have many of his own jackets, just worn flannels and hoodies that did nothing to fight the frost in the air, so he buttoned it up, and set out on his course to find the location where Miles said the protest would be.

It wasn’t difficult. Sections of the city were blocked off, roads were backed up and over the sound of idle engines and incessant honking, calls of justice and passion littered the air. Turning a corner, Waylon was brought face to face with the protest, which looked to be bordering on a riot. Seas of picketers and protesters crowded the streets, surrounded by rows of police that looked on edge at the sight. There was lots of black clothes, rainbows, flags of all sorts streaming through the air and painted across faces, signs, and bodies. It was breathtaking, a beautiful symbol of solidarity and the change to come.

Until he heard the shouting more clearly, and the chorus grew as he got closer. Slogans raining through the crisp autumn air, chants of “Gays bash back!” and “Not your sales pitch!” There were young punks with spiked hair and leather jackets, drag queens in intricate gowns, and your every day pencil pusher, in sweaters and t-shirts-

and Miles Upshur, wearing his own worn black jean jacket, arms wrapped tightly around somebody who looked on the verge of actual bloodshed. They were pale and tall, a bit taller than Miles who was obviously struggling to hold them back, and had almost white-blonde hair that was stark against the greys of the buildings and dreary sky around them. They were screaming hysterically, face to face with a suit that was painstakingly familiar.

Jeremy Blaire. It couldn’t have been anybody else. Miles was on the front lines, that meant somebody else important must have been, and Waylon could only have guessed it’d be the slimy corporate dickhole that Miles was so obsessed with exposing.

Both the Langermann’s were there was well. Blake had his camera in hand, but it was dangling at his side, not doing much filming apart from the restaurant behind them. Lynn was standing stock-still, staring at Miles while he held back the protester with all of his weight, and watching as Blaire’s sickening smile grew at the sight of the person losing composure quickly.

Just then, as Waylon approached Blake to ask what the actual hell was going on, Blaire grabbed the person Miles was holding by the collar of their shirt. Lynn shot forward in the blink of an eye, but was met by the back of Blaire’s hand and fell to the ground. Her husband ran to her immediately, but wasn’t quick enough to stop Blaire from punching the blond in the journalist’s arms, bloodying their face and knocking them back over Miles and onto his lap.

Something came over Waylon then. Never in his life had he experienced anything like this before, but between the absolute look of shock on Lynn and Blake’s face, the anger on Miles’, and the blood dripping from the pale blonde’s quickly bruising (and no doubt broken) nose, there was an unseen force moving through Waylon.

So he grabbed Blaire by the collar, turning him around, and punched him square in the jaw.

It was like the whole street erupted into some kind of controlled chaos whilst the first few flakes of snow fell from the sky. Some of the police and Murkoff personal surrounding grabbed Waylon, pulling the tiny man back from the staggered CEO, but he didn’t care. The crowd's tumult grew as Blaire fell to his knees, sputtering and coughing while clutching his throat and jaw. He spat blood to the frosted concrete beneath him, probably dirtying his pressed-slacks and scraping his knees at the action.

Waylon’s chilled knuckles were throbbing, probably having broken something in his left hand, and the large, over-muscled hands around his body, pulling him from the throng were bruising, but he just didn’t care. Never in his life had he felt this type of adrenaline, this surge coursing through him like a shot of superhuman steroid that fried his nerves and had him absolutely lost in the moment, fuelled by the chorus of cheers that erupted when his knuckles met the scumbag's jaw.

“Waylon!” Miles hoarse voice yelled to him through the tranquil haze of adrenalin and soft snow, and he suddenly broke from the trance. His boyfriend looked confused and terrified, watching as Waylon’s emotionless face turned into a maniacal grin that almost hurt, and he let out a bellowing laugh.

“Did you see that?” he guffawed, “I hope you caught that on video, Langermann!”

They were pulling him away now, knocking him up against the side of a police cruiser and putting him in handcuffs, probably a lot too rough for a man of his size, but he ignored it. He had punched Jeremy Fucking Blaire, and although his hand was now seizing and his friends’ eyes were wide with shock as an officer laid a hand on his head and guided him into the back of the patrol car, he smiled, because he was finally making his own decisions for himself.

Blake’s camera was turned towards Waylon, Blaire, Miles, and Val that day. But since the video was erased shortly after, nobody would need to know.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost, since I've changed pseuds and this was one of my favourite one-shots I've written. As always, comments or criticism are welcome!
> 
> Come scream about video games with me [here.](www.milesupy0urs.tumblr.com)


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